


Reaching for the Moon

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950's, Arranged Marriage, Laufey's A+ Parenting, Minor Violence, Multi, Odin's A+ Parenting, Pining, Suicide Attempt, Upper East Side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4283370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Educated, polished, and with a cutthroat skill for business, one man - the youngest son of a chauffeur - tries to overcome his roots to achieve the unreachable object of his desire.<br/>A Thorki "Sabrina" AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carbon Monoxide Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaScribbla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaScribbla/gifts).



_Once upon a time, on the north shore of Long Island, some thirty miles from New York, there lived a young boy on a large estate._

_The estate was very large indeed, and had many servants._

_There were gardeners to take care of the gardens, and a tree surgeon on a retainer._

_There was a boatman to take care of the boats; to put them in the water in the spring, and to scrape their bottoms in the winter._

_There were specialists to take care of the grounds; the outdoor tennis court, and the indoor tennis court, the outdoor swimming pool, and the indoor swimming pool._

_And there was a man of no particular title, who took care of a small pool in the garden, for a goldfish named “George.”_

_Also on the estate, there lived a chauffer by the name of Harald Laufey, who had been imported from Switzerland many years before, along with a new Rolls-Royce. Laufey was by most accounts a fine chauffer of considerable polish, much like the eight cars in his care. He had three sons – the eldest worked in New York as a bank teller after four years of marriage, the second in a local stable park. And the youngest, at eighteen, was named Loki._

_It was the eve of the annual Belmont Stakes Triple Crown races, and as had always been tradition, The Family was hosting a party. It never rained on the night of the party, they wouldn’t have stood for it._

_There were three members of The Family in all – Father, Mother, and one son._

_Odin and Frigga Borrson were married on May first, 1910; the son of an old Norwegian family, and the daughter of the Swiss ambassador to President Taft. Among their numerous wedding presents was a townhouse in New York, and the estate for weekends._

_The townhouse had since been converted into Saks Fifth Avenue._

_The son, Thor, had attended several of the best Eaton colleges for short periods of time, and gone through several prolific marriages for even shorter periods of time. He was listed on his father’s tax return as a six-thousand dollar deduction._

_Life was pleasant for them, for this was as close to Heaven as one could get, on Long Island._

* * *

 

A knot in the tree bark dug painfully into the boy’s belly, as he scooted further along the thick branch – as far as possible, to allow a clear view and yet to remain hidden by the leaves. His motives were humiliating enough – to be spotted and screeched back home by the duchesses of New York Society would be unbearable.

There was plenty moonlight, and the twinkling electric bulbs strung artfully into the bushes of the garden provided plenty of illumination to the dozens of couples on the sprawling patio, to both see and be seen by the curly-haired teenager crouched in the tree.

His eyes traced the crowd, catlike, before finally alighting on a tall young man with blond hair, his face curled into a rakish grin as he cornered a giggling redhead up against one of the columns, her evening gown puffing out like candy floss around them.

The boy bit at the tip of his tongue, sucking in a quiet breath and allowing his overheated imagination to run wild – how would it feel, soft lips on his throat, tinged with the burn of growing stubble, his long fingers tangling deep into thick gold hair…

“Loki!” came a muffled groan of exasperation from nearer to Earth. He nearly toppled from the branch as he whipped his head round to find his father glaring up at him in frustration, his lined forehead streaked with carburetor grease.

“Get _down_!” he hissed again, beckoning harshly with his free hand while the other mopped away sweat with a filthy oil rag – Loki wondered silently if he realized the mess was only spreading.

“Do you want our pay cut? Or worse, put an end to?” the tirade continued, as all his gangly, too-thin limbs slid down the tree trunk, his eyes downcast.

“Anyway, you’d better get upstairs and finish packing-“

“Father, who’s that girl?”

He barely held back the eyeroll at the older man’s obvious inhale of eager relief.

“Which one?”

“The one dancing with Thor.”

Exhale of irritated disappointment.

“Eldlund, Lorelei Eldlund, Frisk Cosmetics.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, glaring daggers into her pale forehead as she hung around the older boy’s neck, her yards of tulle like a spill of organs across his spotless dinner jacket.

“I hate girls who giggle like that.”

“You hate every girl Thor looks at.” His father sighed heavily. “Or every girl, for that matter.”

His brows furrowed, Laufey took a moment to pinch at the bridge of his nose, tension tightening the lines along each eye.

“I won’t discuss this again with you, this – this _thing_ , in your head about him, you’ve got to get over it. It’s just as well you’re leaving tomorrow. “

“… yeah.”

“And you can lose that tone with me – there are hundreds of boys who dream of being in your shoes. It’s the best law academy in the world, and not everyone has the chance to live in London for three years.”

Loki bit down the urge to shoot back a retort, and merely picked at an unspecific stain down the front of his wife-beater. It wasn’t as if this speech was at all new – he’d heard at least fifty different versions over the past several months in his father’s rumbling baritone. The next part would be –

“- your mother always dreamed of an education; if you won’t go for my sake, at least do it in her memory. See if you can’t make more of yourself than what your brothers dredged up for themselves.”

Spoken by a man who’s college fund had been used to cover his own gambling habit. Laufey seemed to sense his skeptisicm, and softened his tone slightly.

“I’m not saying I’m disappointed in what they’ve done – they’re respectable, at the very least. That’s all anyone can ask for in this life, respect.”

Both enormous, oil-stained hands dug into the pockets of his coverall, as he followed his son’s eyes across the manicured lawn to the light sprinkled terrace, where dozens of beautiful people – rendered so by a surgeon’s artistic knife or a trainer with the skill of a sculptor – sipped at champagne and necked in quiet corners where they could pretend no one was watching.

Thor and a pink-flushed Lorelei were now staggering off in the direction of the indoor tennis court, a bottle of French bubbly badly concealed under his jacket.

“…Don’t reach for the moon, son.”

It was textbook really. _Look at you. The deviant son of the household help. An antifreeze stained garage rat with nothing but a blue collar existence ahead of you. Don’t build your hopes up. They’ll only be dashed._

“… No, of course not.” He muttered, with the thin-lipped smile he’d trademarked over the years.

“Go get some sleep – the boat leaves at noon tomorrow, I’ll wake you up around seven.”

“… Alright.”

Laufey stared him down a moment or two longer, before loping off towards the garage, muttering under his breath.

The boy stood quietly under the branches for a few moments longer, watching the dancing beauties of the Upper East Side, though not particularly seeing them. The song changed after a moment, something rich and mellow, and as he closed his eyes and let the bass melody wash through his senses he finally reached the decision – one that, if he were honest with himself, had been simmering quietly beneath the surface ever since he was nine years old, and had seen an apple-cheeked, twelve year old Thor Odinson roller skating past the garages with his posse of worshipping friends.

 

*

 

The servants quarters were darkened, and the garage beneath them was silent as a tomb.

Fitting, Loki considered to himself, with a black-humored smirk.

The keys to each car hung on separate pegs of a locked safe on the rear wall, which he’d learned to hack at the age of seven. There’d been no meaning to it then, merely the thrill of enabling himself to act against his father’s direct order without the latter having any knowledge of it.

Tonight was to be the first and last time he’d every actually start a car, he realized suddenly, with a touch of wistfulness. Just as well. He’d have made a terrible chauffer.

Moving as silently as possible in the dark, he slipped through the side door, locking it behind him, before easing the safe open and retrieving each labeled key ring with the deftness of a jewel thief.

All eight cars started up like a dream, smooth as melted chocolate. He stood quietly to the side for a moment, watching the clouds behind up along the row of exhaust pipes, before laying down on the concrete and breathing deeply.

Soon, it would be over – all finished, and he would never have to dread the empty existence looming before him, of being trampled over by dim-witted oafs that all of the world had tried to convince him were his “betters.”

He could have been stronger than all of them, and then, perhaps, Thor – that fucking poisonous beautiful clod – would have seen _him_ as something wondrous and worthy of lust; and completely unattainable.

He bit down a cough, breathing in deeply and letting his eyes drift shut…

 

“What the -!”

 

Green eyes snapping back open, Loki dove behind the nearest car as the enormous garage doors soared upwards and open with a mechanical rumble.

Instantly he felt the tears start to burn, as a familiar blond figure came into distant view, stumbling alongside the grumbling cars with Lorelei in tow.

Typical, perfectly typical – the numbskull couldn’t even allow Loki the decency of his own attempted death without blowing it all to hell and back.

Reining in the desire to leap across the hood of the Ford and dig his hands into Thor’s burly neck, the eighteen year old kept himself crouched beside the back wheel as the son of the house and his giggling mistress of the moment busied themselves with sliding in and out of the cars and switching off the motors.

“-‘re pranksh all the time, too mussh wine –“the blond slurred between bouts of half-drunk laughter, before falling into the backseat of the freshly washed Rolls, Lorelei shrieking as he pulled her on top of him.

Throat tight and eyes stinging, Loki silently crept out through the side door and up to the servants’ stairs, rage bubbling up from his belly outward.

 

By the time he had curled into his pathetic little wrought iron twin, staring at the two meager suitcases sitting next to the door, the fury had cooled into something sharp and deadly. He bit at his lip carefully, and tear-bright eyes narrowed in the darkness as his thin lips curled into a cat-like smile…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Visuals:
> 
>  
> 
> Teenage Loki - 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thor -  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> The House - 
> 
>  


	2. The Son of the Hotdog Dynasty and the Daughter of the Mustard King

 

_Five Years Later_

 

  

Laufey wasn’t the sort of man to worry. It was something he learned to let go of in his youth, once he realized that it was a quick path to aggravation and grief. When his advancing age had made indifference more difficult, he had turned to artificial means of reinforcement. Society might frown on his methods, as his wife and children had, but if it spared him the additional pain of driving his body to the breaking point over everything beyond his control, it was well worth the disapproval.

The letter – the only correspondence, almost five years too late – lay innocently on the kitchen table, sprinkled with a few crumbs from the ham sandwiches Cecilia had left for the staff lunch. Magnificent hot-press ivory stationary, handwritten in flawless copperplate.

 

_Father,_

_I suppose that thanks is due for the past half decade, what one might even venture to say, the best of my existence. I’ve learned many things in these past years, beyond the obvious – how to be in the world, and more importantly, of the world._

_Not to stand aside, and watch._

_I’ll be flying home on Friday – don’t bother to pick me up at the airport, transportation is arranged._

_If you should have any difficulty recognizing your son upon sight, have no concern – my feelings will hardly be compromised. In fact, I anticipate it._

_L. Laufeyson_

_Attorney-CPA_

* * *

 

 

 

The usual thunder of New York morning traffic was interrupted by a cacophony of blaring horns as a fiery red convertible, almost embarrassing in it’s sheer, tasteless fashionability, screeched up to the pavement and braked with a thud, one wheel landing up on the sidewalk. None of the passerby where particularly shocked when the driver – a young man in a stupidly stylish bronze-colored suit – leaped the side of the car and stormed through the revolving door of a nearby twenty-six story building bearing sixteen brass plates, each engraved indelibly with the Borrson name and trademark.

All the way up each flight, dozens of harried secretarial assistants and typists leapt out of the way in alarm as the blond raged past, before stumbling to a halt in front of a petite, dark haired woman at an enormous desk that only made her appear tinier by comparison.

“Is he in there?!” he all but bellowed, gesticulating wildly towards the gigantic mahogany doors.

“He’s in a conference right now with the – “

“Do I seem like I care, I want to talk to him -!”

She pressed her lips tight with a frustrated side-nod.

“Well – how about three-thir-“

“ _NOW!_ ”

“I do have my instruct-“

“Jane, are going to open that door or do I have to pick you up and use you as a battering ram?!”

“Mr. Odinson- !”

“ _WELL?!_ ”

Gritting her teeth, Jane slapped her finger onto the tiny button at the corner of her desk, the office doors unlatching delicately – for all the good it did them, when they were smashed apart by a pair of enormous shoulders.

Jane glared after him, a slight flush to her face, as one of the junior secretaries crept up behind her chair, squinting through her coke-bottle glasses.

“He’s kinda hot when he gets like that, you know?”

“Shut up, Darcy.”

 

 

*

 

“ _Father!_ ”

 

Odin Borrson turned slowly into view from behind the high back of his polished-leather secretarial chair, along with the ten company executives seated along each side of the board table.

To his son’s indignant shock, he hardly seemed taken aback by the outburst, or the abrupt arrival.

“Ask Jane for an appointment.”

“None of that- I want a damned explanation!”

Odin sighed heavily, before waving off the minutes girl and the board of directors with a monarchial nod.

“Give us ten minutes, gentlemen.” He muttered, though the statement was clearly directed at the bull-panting man to have entered the room.

Once the palatial office had been cleared, Thor stomped over the desk with all the characteristics of a six year old about to throw a conniption.

“What the hell does this mean?!”

Odin glanced briefly at the society pages his son slapped down over his desk, before glancing up inquisitively.

“I’m afraid you might have to be more specific.”

“’A Fourth Peal of Wedding Bells For Thor Odinson’ – all over the damned first page!”

The older man delicately adjusted his thick monocle, peering down at the newsprint with a slight increase in interest.

“What a surprise – for once these rags actually made an effort to print the correct patronymic.”

Blood rushing behind his eyes, Thor snatched up the pages again and slapped his fist through the center.

“Did you plant this?!”

Instead of answering, Odin simply popped open an enamel box on his desk and pulled out a Cuban cigar, seemingly unaffected by his son’s increasing fury.

“Really, I thought it common knowledge about yourself and Sifrieda Jarlsdottir – what’s the matter, don’t you like her?”

“I like her a lot!”

“Well then.”

“I like _A LOT OF GIRLS A LOT!”_

Odin puffed at his cigar, brows raised ever so slightly.

“Do lower your voice, this isn’t a polo match.”

“Understand this Father, I have no intention of marrying Sifrieda Jarlsdottir- I’ve been married before, three times is more than enough for any man-!”

“But this is the first time your mother and I approve. At long last, you’re settling down and performing something constructive.”

It took an admittable moment for the full implication to sink in, after which Thor’s blue eyes widened to a laughable extent and the veins in his forehead bulged as he readied himself for another roar, once again smoothly cut off by his father.

“Surely you’re not objecting on material standards – Sif is one of the loveliest girls in our circle, besides the fact that her father wields the better part of twenty million dollars – that would be rather narrow-minded, even for you.”

Thor clenched his eyes shut a moment and attempted to breathe, before finally allowing himself a growing smirk.

“You’ve overlooked one small matter.”

“And what’s that?”

“I haven’t proposed, and she hasn’t accepted.”

Cigar smoke plumed across his face in a bitter tinged cloud.

“Oh, don’t be concerned – I proposed, and Mr. Jarlson accepted.”

Thor’s face darkened again.

“I don’t suppose you kissed him?!”

“You were going to propose marriage to her at some time or another – I merely thought, as the head of the family, I ought to help you make up your mind.”

With a final senseless howl, Thor snatched up one of the chairs surrounding the table and, hefting it over his head, smashed it to the marble tile with an echoing crash.

“I’ll say this, _father_ – I’ll pray to God for the day they cram your crooked carcass in a box, and I’m given the chance to sit in that chair and give the signal to burn every cent of holdings your father’s father ever collected!”

“You won’t have to wait quite that long, I assure you.” Odin called after him, gently, as he headed for the doors. “I intend to announce my formal retirement at the close of the month-”

“So much the better; is it a wedding gift?!”

“ – all executive power will be transferred to my appointed successor, you remember Laufey’s boy?”

The room stilled, but for the clouds of smoke wafting above Odin’s grey head.

“ _That skinny little garage rat with the mercurochrome painted knees?! You’d risk the family fortune on-?!”_

“He’ll be returning from London any day – excellent references provided in his correspondences, ample experience; he requested consideration for the position, and, with no viable alternative –“

Thor bristled, opening his mouth to voice another loud protest, only for his father to lift a hand for silence.

“-I thought it to be the best course of action. He will have the reins of the company holdings, I will be given the opportunity to rest my tired limbs, and you will have ample time and leisure in which to devote yourself to providing your mother with plenty of grandchildren to coddle. I think you’ll be quite happy, son. Quite happy indeed.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor (present) -
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Jane - 
> 
>  


	3. A Tale of Two Champagne Glasses

By nine-thirty PM the strong, sweet scent of tiger lilies  - Sif’s favorite, apparently – had spread from the enormous clusters in the outdoor pool and permeated the entire garden, the breeze even carrying the distinctive fragrance through the French doors and into the drawing room, where the more important guests had clustered, champagne glasses firmly in hand.

Thor’s collar seemed about four times tighter than usual, as he kept his spine ramrod straight. One hand rested at Sif’s lower back while she leaned against him gracefully, admittedly lovely in yards of black organza matched exactly to the shade of her hair, diamonds glittering at her earlobes.

Another hush passed over the assembled, as the photographer raised his arm a second time, before another bright flash illuminated the pair briefly, their proud parents flanking them on either side.

The tripod had barely been carried out of the room before society – or at least, the dozens of simpering, bejeweled women who trailed after his mother as if she were a goddess, and they were a cult – flooded around the lady of the house and Mrs. Jarlson, the men beating a hasty retreat to the library, where scotch and cigars patiently waited.

Sighing, Thor offered his arm to his (now painfully official) fiancée, noting that her face seemed to be colored with a satisfying amount of embarrassment at the proceedings as well.

“I _am_ sorry for the fuss…” she muttered, as they made their way through the throng of well-wishers, too-high smiles plastered on each of their faces. “Ten more days… at this rate, it’ll seem like ten more years.”

He couldn’t imagine a single response appropriate for mixed company, and instead led her over to the dance floor, a white jacketed arm curling around her waist as they eased in among the other couples.

It was strange, but he hadn’t remembered experiencing quite this level of discomfort during any of his previous engagements – but then, he’d been nineteen when he’d offered marriage to Countess Amora… and the other two weddings within the next year had begun and ended in such rapid succession he couldn’t quite remember _what_ he’d felt at any point in time…

Sif had leaned in close, her head resting on his shoulder, and something writhed in his belly. The sensation only worsened as they drifted past both their mothers watching from the French doors, puffed up with satisfaction like champion horse owners at Belmont Park.

“Don’t they make a handsome couple-?”

“Perfectly charming – Sifrieda’s grown into such a lovely young lady, you remember when they would ride ponies through the garden, tearing up the flower beds?”

Polite laughter bubbled up from the gaggle of listeners, and Thor clenched his teeth to the point of pain as a red flush crawled up his neck.

“- She’d talk about him for days, and I tell you, I always _said_ –“

“Excuse me, ladies… Mrs. Borson.”

“Ooooh, there you are!”

Thor paused abruptly mid-step, wrenching Sif back an inch and earning a surprised gasp in return, as he watched his mother peck kisses to the face of a rather tall – and entirely anonymous – man.

His dinner jacket had to be bespoke, it hung so perfectly, and while not traditionally handsome like Thor himself, he carried his body with a sort of feline grace that left every woman blushing as Frigga made introductions and he brushed his lips across each gloved hand…

Suddenly she took his arm, her blue eyes scanning the crowd, and for once in his life Thor felt the first stirrings of panic, as inexplicable warning alarms began to blare inside his mind.

For the second time in the evening words failed him, as Sif gradually noticed his stiffened muscles and pulled away, her brow furrowed.

“Are you –“

“I-“ he faltered, glancing back up at the veranda.

It was something about the eyes – there was something poisonous, buried deep, like a cobra rearing back to strike… Suddenly he glanced to the left and Thor found himself directly in his line of sight, thin lips curling up in something that might just have been a smirk…

“What’s –“

“Sif,” he muttered quickly, pulling her out of the throng and towards the cluster of columns near the edge of the terrace.

“Sif, why don’t we get out of here-?”

“To the indoor tennis court?” she inquired, a sly smile playing on her lips.

“Yes-“

“And you’ll bring champagne?”

“Absolutely-“ he paused, staring at her moment, before huffing out a half silent laugh.

Evidently, word spread quickly among Long Island debutantes.

“Go - go on, I’ll catch up.”

She bit her lip with a deprecating shake of the head, before ducking under his arm and down the steps into the garden in a rush of black organza.

Swallowing hard, Thor watched her vanish past the trees with something that might have been a touch of guilt, but he preferred not to think too hard about it.

The bartender handed him a bottle of Krug before he could even begin to formulate the request, before he lifted a pair of champagne glasses from a tray and slipped both into the lower front pocket of his dinner jacket. The positioning might have been somewhat awkward, but it was, after all, only temporary –

“Ah, there you are darling!” Frigga’s groomed, decisive tones sliced through the chatter as the crowds parted to allow her to pass, a Moses in a thickly embroidered ball gown.

Her serpentine escort hadn’t lost the glitter in his eye, and Thor felt the blood slowly drain from his face.

“Sweetheart, you remember Mr. Laufeyson? – He’ll be assuming your father’s duties on the Board –“

_No, there was no chance_ –

Biting back his sudden shock, he pulled on a familiar, smirking grin, leaning back against the bar and pointedly ignoring the proffered hand.

“ _Loki_? Little Loki with the water hose, rinsing off my Cadillac?”

Irritatingly, the younger man’s expression didn’t falter.

“-Father didn’t tell me we were covering tailoring expenses as well.”

Finally, a reaction of sorts was achieved, though not exactly what he might have hoped – instead, the smile widened slightly, emitting a short, choked back burst of laughter.

“I would never dream of asking, Mr. Odinson – after all, one look at your father tonight and what can one think but ‘hallowed antiquity.’”

Thor made an admirable effort to keep his smug grin fixed, though he could feel the strain in his temples.

Fortunately, his mother seemed oblivious to the entire exchange.

“He’s fresh from London this evening  - New York’s newest and finest, aren’t you dear?” she murmured affectionately, petting a manicured hand along the little worm’s shoulder.

“Now now, Mrs. Borrson – I wouldn’t wish to brag.”

“Of course not,” Thor cut in bluntly. “Better proof by deeds than words, after all.”

The brunet’s eyes narrowed.

“Quite correct.”

“Sweetheart, where’s Sifrieda got to? It’s not like her to run away –“

“Oh yes, congratulations are in order, aren’t they?” the worm smiled. “And only in ten days –“

“Oh, Loki dear, I’ve had a marvelous thought-!” Frigga suddenly gasped, clutching at his arm. “Why don’t you offer them the company plane for the honeymoon getaway? Think of it, sweetheart – You could be in Paris with your wife just hours after the reception-!”

“Thank you Mother, but I’m sure… _Mr. Laufeyson_ has more important things on his mind; besides, I’m not about to spend the first night of my honeymoon on a plane, and particularly not _sitting up_.”

Infuriatingly, Loki didn’t so much as blush.

“Speaking of the future Mrs. Odinson, I’d better –“

“Oh please, not when we’ve just reconnected.” Loki gushed with a disbelieving scoff. “After all, so much to discuss before tomorrow morning, fine details and what not…”

“No no, dear – all play and no work tonight, remember?” Frigga chided gently, only for a pair of green eyes to burn across her face, as he lifted the back of her hand to his lips.

“Won’t be long.” He whispered, his voice guttural, and, though Thor would never admit it to a living soul, stirring. “-Promise.”

She blushed like a school girl, kissing him on the cheek with a smile before heading back towards the veranda, her evening cape drawn closer around her shoulders against the breeze.

 

*

 

He unlatched the door to the library with a feather-light touch, and for the thousandth time Thor couldn’t help but think how wholly wrong it was that a chauffer’s son could possess that level of physical dignity and deftness. One would almost think he’d practiced.

Even if that weren’t the case, it was still absurd. Womanly, even.

“I see you’ve managed to charm my mother already –“

“Not a very difficult trick, if one has the talent.” Loki murmured breezily, trailing his fingers across the curved frame of the heirloom standing globe.

Thor let his lip curl into a sneer and stalked forward, his bulk meant to provide an intimidating display as it always had in the past. The younger man merely seemed a little bored.

“Half the battle won then… but if we’re going to be frank, understand this – You won’t see through a single year behind that desk. You’ve done what with your whole life, hm? Brushed down seat leather, changed a few tire screws? And you think you could juggle sixteen companies with nothing but –“

“Eighteen.” Loki interrupted calmly.

“What?”

“There are eighteen companies under the Borrson conglomerate, not including the Borrson Coal consortium and all various subsidiaries.”

For a long moment there was silence, the air boiling as the blond fumed, the knuckles of both hands stark white. Loki merely gave another thin-lipped smile as he played delicately with the dial on an antique telescope.

“I’ll suppose I’ll leave now, before you cause yourself any further embarrassment –“

“I’ll be there tomorrow morning –“ Thor finally ground out, his jaw sore from being held too tight.

“I rather doubt that.”

Thor had time for only a momentary flash of confusion before Loki snatched up the telescope and slammed it against his upper leg; both champagne glasses in his jacket pocket shattered instantly, the shards burying themselves in his thigh and scraping along his hipbone.

He dropped to the carpet with a bellow, instantly muffled by a hand over his mouth as Loki rolled him over onto his back.

“Shhhh, shh shh… I won’t waste time with the lengthy explanations, but in short, I’ll be far too busy piecing together your father’s rags to concern myself with your infamous little tantrums.”

He petted back Thor’s hair a moment, before rising in a single, balletic movement and heading for the door, straightening his tie.

“Oh, and don’t fret – I’ll make your apologies to poor Sif. Might even drive her home; after all, I’ve got a reputation to maintain. “ he flashed a grin back to the moaning figure sprawled on the carpet, the bloodstains finally beginning to spread unseen across the leg of his black trousers.

“Try not to wriggle about so much – you’ll only bleed out faster. They should start searching in about…” he glanced at the silver-faced watch on his wrist. “… fifteen minutes. Good evening, Mr. Odinson.”

With a final, curt nod, he closed and latched the door, leaving Thor quite alone on the library floor and wondering just what had been living right over the garage, right over his car, for so many years.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki (present) -
> 
>  
> 
> Sif - 
> 
>  
> 
> Sif's dress - 
> 
> Frigga's dress - 

**Author's Note:**

> Some Visuals:
> 
>  
> 
> Teenage Loki - 
> 
>  
> 
> Thor -   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> The House - 


End file.
